Girl in the Dark

by Marion Pauw

  I’d been back in the office for a while when I stumbled upon the forgotten envelope in my handbag. Rummaging for my keys, I saw it wedged between a pack of Wet Wipes and my notebook.

  I wasn’t expecting a miracle. Probably from an outfit that couldn’t be bothered to shell out money for a current mailing list. But the letter did not trumpet YOU are the LUCKY WINNER of a MILLION EURO if you invest NOW in some teakwood plantation somewhere!

  It was a carefully worded letter written in the kind of high-flown legalese favored by British solicitors. What it came down to was: Rosita was the sole heir of a great-uncle in England, recently deceased, and was requested to contact the solicitor’s office.

  It didn’t have to mean anything. The great-uncle was just as likely to have left his niece nothing but debts as he was to have left her a fortune. I switched on my computer and Googled the great-uncle’s name: Richard Angeli. No hits.

  I glanced at my watch. I had fifteen minutes to get to the day care before it closed. And getting there would take at least ten. Shit. Burley & Burley would have to wait until tomorrow.

  CHAPTER 33

  RAY

  Rosita opened the door dressed in sweatpants and a stained sweater. She was pale, with dark circles under her eyes I hadn’t noticed before. She’d been looking much more presentable before Anna’s father’s visit. He could just come over whenever he liked, but as for taking care of her properly—don’t hold your breath.

  “How did it go with Anna? What did you guys do?”

  “How come you let that Victor come in whenever he wants?”

  “Ray, please. Not now.” She took off Anna’s jacket and hung it on the coatrack. “Hey, sweetie, did you feed the ducks?”

  Anna said yes. Now she wanted to go watch TV.

  “And you let him come upstairs, too. Why?” I asked when we were in the living room, after Rosita had turned on a cartoon for Anna. “Why? Did you let him touch you? Did he touch your privates? Is that it?”

  Rosita lit a cigarette and inhaled deeply. “Stop it. Please, Ray. I’m too tired for this. Come, let’s have a drink, and we’ll order pizza. Pour me a glass of wine, will you?”

  But I wasn’t going to let her off that easy. “Why? Why do you let him come upstairs?”

  “Why do I let him come upstairs and not you, is that what you mean?”

  I didn’t say anything; I lost my nerve.

  She walked up to me, so close that I took a step back, even though I was a head taller than her. Smoke came blowing into my face. “Is that what you want, Ray? I thought you were different. I thought we were friends.”

  I was having trouble breathing.

  Squinting, she puffed another cloud of smoke into my face. I didn’t like it. “In that case, you’d better come upstairs with me, if that’s what you so badly want. Come on. I’ll show you my cunt. Because that’s what it’s called, Ray. ‘Privates’ is what little kids say.”

  She stubbed out her cigarette in the ashtray, grabbed my hand, and dragged me up the stairs. I followed her, not knowing what else I was supposed to do.

  Her bedroom was mysterious, the bed hidden under a slick black coverlet. Quite a change from my own bedroom, which was all white, white, white. Nice and bright, said my mother.

  “Okay, now lie down.” Rosita pushed me roughly toward the bed. She was strong for a woman her size. I stumbled, lost my balance, and fell backward. I made the mattress bounce.

  She pulled off her sweater. She wasn’t wearing a bra. Her breasts weren’t as round as you’d expect; they were kind of pointy, with big brown nipples. Still, I couldn’t keep my eyes off them. I hoped she’d let me touch them. And I hoped she would touch me and take my penis in her mouth, just like on TV.

  “Do you think I’m pretty, Ray? Is this what you wanted to see?” She cupped her hands around her boobs and squeezed.

  I couldn’t speak. My throat was all closed up. Her fingers started rubbing her nipples so that they grew hard.

  “And this, Ray? My ‘privates’? Do you want to see them, too?”

  I nodded, my head moving like a thick pudding.

  She yanked her pants down. They were down around her ankles; she didn’t even bother stepping out of them.

  I looked at her lovely round hips, which weren’t very different from the photo in the living room, and at the narrow line of dark hair starting underneath her tummy and ending between her legs. I saw the two flaps down there with the little knob sticking out in between. I saw everything I’d never seen in real life.

  It was as if a huge weight was pressing me down on the bed. It was giving me goose bumps and making my penis throb. I couldn’t move. I could only stare.

  “What would you like, Ray? Would you like a little show? Do you want to watch me jack off with my vibrator? Do you want me to sit on your face? Just say it.” She sounded angry, angrier than I’d ever heard her.

  My throat was thick and my jaw felt uncomfortably clenched.

  “Do you want to touch me, Ray? Is that what you want?” She shuffled to the side of the bed, hobbled by the pants at her ankles. “Here, stick out your hand. Go on, touch my cunt. You want to, don’t you?” She spread her legs as far apart as the pants let her.

  I stretched my arm. My hand was shaking.

  “It’s just a cunt. Every woman has one. Even your mother has one. How do you think you got here?”

  She grabbed my hand and pressed it to her privates. I shut my eyes. It felt warm, and as soft as the inside of a canelé. My fingers lay there motionless as I felt, just felt the sensation of the blood throbbing inside her.

  “You have no idea how to turn a woman on, do you, Ray?” She laughed a short, hard laugh. “I bet you don’t.”

  I opened my eyes. I had no idea what she wanted of me.

  “Caress me. Start by stroking my cunt, but gently.”

  Cautiously I started stroking the flaps, the knob, and the area around the little hole, which I knew could grow bigger. Big enough so a penis could fit inside. The flesh felt soft, like dolphin skin.

  Rosita closed her eyes. “That’s nice, Ray. That feels good. Now I want you to stick your finger inside my cunt. Feel how wet I’m getting?”

  My hand was shaking again. I found the hole and gently inserted one finger. It was sticky in there, and tight. Rosita gasped. I quickly pulled my finger out. “Did I hurt you?” My voice sounded different. Hoarse, almost whispery.

  “No, silly boy. Keep going.”

  It was wet inside the hole, Rosita’s cunt, and even warmer than on the outside. “Move your finger up and down, and then back to my clit.”

  I let my finger slip inside her, up and down over the rough landscape of warm flesh. When I pulled my finger out again, she grabbed my hand and put it where she wanted it to go. “This is the clitoris, Ray. Maybe you remember it from biology class. You have to rub it.”

  I started rubbing my finger over the knob. It was easier when my fingers were wet. I heard her breathing heavily and groaning. The ache in my penis grew unbearable.

  “Now circle your finger around my clit. Harder. Come on, Ray. Make me come.”

  I looked at her face. At the half-closed eyes and the gaping mouth making sounds I’d never heard her make before.

  She pressed my hand even harder against her. “Don’t stop, Ray. Keep it going.” I went on rubbing the knob back and forth, the way she wanted. Then she gave a scream, squeezing my hand hard against her privates. She thrust her hips violently forward and screamed again.

  All sorts of stuff was happening between her legs. I felt muscles contract, and it got even warmer and wetter than before.

  Then it was over. She stopped screaming and pushed my hand off. It was quiet for a moment, except for some heavy breathing. Then, clearing her throat, she grunted, “Not bad for a beginner.” She started pulling up her pants again, with me still lying on that bed, my penis about to explode.

  She walked around the bed and picked up her sweater, the one with the stains, and pulled it
on. “Okay. I’m going downstairs now. You can jerk off if you like. There’s Kleenex on the bedside table.”

  She turned without another glance at me. I heard her walk downstairs and had no choice but to unzip my pants and relieve myself.

  CHAPTER 34

  IRIS

  “He wasn’t particularly outgoing before, but since his stay in solitary he’s been completely uncommunicative,” Mo told me. “The only time he seems even remotely present is in a one-on-one situation.”

  “How did that happen?” We were sitting in one of the consulting rooms. Mo had suggested giving me a rundown before my visit.

  “It’s probably a self-defense mechanism developed at an early age. Whenever the world around him doesn’t feel safe, he retreats into his own little world.”

  “But shouldn’t he feel safe in here? Isn’t he getting therapy and counseling and everything?”

  “Believe me, I’m not happy about it, either.”

  You could tell he meant it. Actually, he seemed like the sort of person who meant everything he said. It occurred to me how few of the people I knew were genuinely kind. And also how often I wasn’t exactly kind myself.

  “Let me explain to you how this treatment facility works so you’ll have a clearer idea of what to expect. There are inmates for whom therapy of any sort is pointless. Take the psychopaths, for instance. They are quite incapable of changing, although one does notice that they tend to mellow a bit as they grow older, thanks to a decrease in the testosterone levels.” He put his hand on mine for a second. “Not that Ray’s a psychopath—far from it. Don’t worry.”

  I nodded. Was this normal, for him to touch me? Did he do that to all the other patients’ relatives? Or was it just me? Was there some special thing between us?

  “If a psychopath has a miraculous ‘turnaround,’ you can bet it’s to get out of his punishment; he doesn’t actually understand it’s wrong to hurt others. If you release him from prison, he’ll just be even more careful to cover his tracks next time. Fortunately there are inmates who do profit from therapy. They’re the ones we can see going back to their normal lives at some point.”

  “I take it Ray belongs in that category.”

  He was silent for a moment. It was clear the news he had to tell me was not good. “I’m not sure he’s capable of dealing. There’s nothing official to back this up, but from my own observation I’ve seen that some—not many—in here don’t make it. When they arrive they’re still fairly functional, but a few months later they’re practically basket cases. There are units that offer more safety and structure, but it’s always a while before we’re able to place them there. Sometimes it’s too late, I’m sorry to say.”

  The last thing I wanted to hear was that Ray wouldn’t make it. “So what you’re saying is, this isn’t the right place for him.”

  “That’s not what I’m saying. The problem is that there aren’t many alternatives. An inmate may reach the point where he’s served out his time, yet it would be irresponsible to release him. So what then?” He looked at me so intently with those lovely calm eyes of his that it got me all flustered. “Sorry, I haven’t given you a chance to speak. What was your initial reaction?”

  “It’s hard. I feel bonded with him somehow. Maybe because my son looks so much like him . . .”

  “How old is your son?”

  “Three. His father and I don’t live together.” Why was I telling him that?

  “That’s great,” said Mo. “Not that you don’t live together, that’s not what I mean, but I think it’s great you have a little boy.”

  I felt myself getting red and tried to go on as normally as possible. “I’ve been hearing and reading the most terrible things about Ray. But when I saw him during my visit, I couldn’t imagine him being capable of such violence. He seemed so naive and innocent.”

  “I do think he’s basically a nice guy.”

  “I think so, too. And you’ll probably laugh to hear me say this, but . . . isn’t it possible he’s innocent?”

  “You’re sweet to keep asking that question.”

  “See? You’re not taking me seriously.”

  He laughed. Nice teeth. “I take you seriously.”

  I was sure my face had gone scarlet. I hoped he hadn’t noticed.

  “Much as I’d like, for your sake, to think Ray is innocent, you don’t get placed in this kind of institution for nothing. Ray has been thoroughly evaluated by the nation’s top forensic psychiatrists. If they’ve decided he needs to be confined in a mental institution, then you can take it there’s definitely something wrong with him.”

  “We know there’s something wrong with Ray. I’m not saying he’s completely normal. But suppose there’s a miscarriage of justice, and someone is wrongly convicted. In Ray’s case, that would mean he’s not only sent to prison an innocent man, but lands in a mental institution later on as well.”

  An amused smile hovered at the corners of Mo’s mouth.

  “It’s possible, isn’t it?” My boiling face was set to explode.

  “Fine. In theory.” He glanced at his watch. “If you’ll excuse me a moment, I’ll go get Ray.”

  Maybe I was chasing a total fantasy. A childish pipe dream in which families were reunited and everyone lived happily ever after. I already pictured myself sitting down at Christmas dinner with Ray, Aaron, and my mother. Why not?

  I heard footsteps in the corridor, and sat up straight. My armpits felt clammy. I hoped I didn’t smell of sweat.

  Ray was the first to enter, closely followed by Mo and the guard.

  I’d prepared myself for the worst, but Ray looked the same as the last time. I think he was even wearing the same outfit. He avoided my eyes, seeming more interested in the room’s bare walls.

  “Should we shake hands?” I asked.

  “Better not,” said Mo, standing in the corner. “If both the guard and I can confirm that there wasn’t any physical contact between you two, it may help Ray avoid having to get drug tested again.” His voice sounded neutral and professional. Of course.

  “Okay.” I sat down.

  “Take a seat, Ray,” said Mo.

  Ray sat down, robotlike.

  Silence.

  “How are you?” I asked.

  “Not great.” He still wouldn’t look at me, but started playing with his hands.

  I glanced over my shoulder at Mo, who was sitting behind me. He gave me an encouraging nod.

  “What’s the matter, then?”

  “They’re all against me. I don’t know how long they’re going to keep this up. Until I’m dead?”

  “I’m not against you,” I said. “Do you hear me? I’m on your side.”

  He nodded, although I didn’t know if it was because he understood what I was saying or because he was just acknowledging the sound of my voice.

  “I want to help you. Will you let me discuss your case with you, Ray? Is that all right with you?”

  He did not react, but I decided to go ahead anyway. “I’ve read your file. And to be honest, it’s hard to find any obvious leads to help prove your innocence.”

  Still no reaction. Worse, Ray no longer appeared to be aware of my presence.

  “Ray? I need you to help me. I very much want to represent you as your lawyer, and to mount an appeal, but I do need your cooperation.”

  “What?”

  Even if it was just a monosyllable, I was happy to have him respond. “An appeal. Asking the court to reopen your case. But for that we need new evidence. Because in an appeal, the burden of proof is reversed.”

  His face gave no indication that he understood any of this. Just keep talking, I thought. “At your first trial the prosecutor had to prove you were guilty. Now it’s the other way around. Now it’s up to you to prove you’re not guilty. Only, we’re not allowed to use any evidence that’s in the existing court record. So we need a new argument, and that’s what I want to start looking into. But I can’t unless you help me find it.”

&nbs
p; “Oh.” His hands started flailing all over the place again, the way I’d sometimes also see Aaron excitedly flapping his hands around. I had to stop myself from grabbing them to make them stop.

  “If you really are innocent, I can help you get out of here. Do you understand?”

  I couldn’t stop myself from glancing at Mo. He was following our conversation intently.

  “Yes.”

  “What do you say?”

  He looked at me and again I saw the resemblance—my mother’s eyes, and Aaron’s. “I want my fish.”

  “I take it that’s a yes.”

  He nodded.

  “I’ve brought you some more pictures of your fish. I’ll give them to you later. But first we have to discuss your case. Can you do that? Can you tell me what happened the day Rosita and Anna were killed?”

  I caught a look of panic in his eyes.

  “We can start with some other questions, if you like.”

  He nodded vehemently. Like a toddler.

  “Who were Rosita’s friends? Did she ever have visitors?”

  “Did she ever.” He sounded angry suddenly.

  “Who, then?”

  “Anna’s father.”

  “Victor Asscher. It sounds to me as if you don’t really like him.”

  “Like him? He didn’t take care of Rosita properly.” He was furious. His eyes were black with rage and he looked as though he might explode. I could just see him wielding the Börja carving knife. Hadn’t Mo and I just agreed he was a softie at heart?

  I took my notebook out of my handbag and wrote down the name Victor Asscher. “In what way didn’t he take care of Rosita properly?”

  “He wouldn’t buy carpeting for her. And he wouldn’t buy her a couch, either, or clothes.” He was getting more and more incensed.

  “You can have a time-out if you feel yourself getting too angry, Ray. Are you okay?” asked Mo behind me.

  “Yes,” he said.

  I raised my eyebrows and gripped my pen, but then I realized there wasn’t much for me to write. I turned to Mo. “Is it all right if I keep going?”

  “I think so.”